Morrowind: Shadow of the Vampire
by WilliamJago
Summary: Vvardenfell teethers on the brink of collapse. The tribunal have withdrawn, the guilds and Great Houses are at one another's throats and the foces of darkness, sensing this weakness, are making their bid for power. Into the midst of all this is thrust an unknown prisoner. Caring little for the troubles of others, he knows not what destiney has in store for him.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Morrowind or any of the Bethasda products and I am not gaining any financial benefits from writing this story.**

OOC: I have been considering doing a Morrowind fan fiction for some time, but it has taken me a few years to get round to it. Here's hoping it does not disappoint.

**A-A-A**

"_Each event is preceded by Prophecy, but without the hero there is no event."- Zurin Arctus, the Underking._

_In the waning years of the Third Era of Tamriel, a prisoner born on a certain day to uncertain parents was sent under guard, without explanation, to Morrowind, ignorant of the role he was to play in that nation's history._

**A-A-A**

The sun hung low in the sky, all but hidden behind a band of low-lying clouds. A strong wind blew across a barren landscape strewn with rocks and the occasional thorn bush, whipping up thick clouds of dust and sand as it went.

A lone figure was staggering along a rough-worn trail, coughing violently as it attempted to shield its face against the stinging blasts of sand. Its foot caught on something and it fell forward, only for the landscape to change before it hit the ground. The figure looked around in astonishment upon finding itself lying on a mound of soft earth and sodden grass. Tree's and heavy bushes dotted the marshy ground, clustering around pools of dark water that reflected the baleful glare of the twin moons. The figure started with shock as something soft and cold struck its head, cursing inwardly as more rain began to fall, soaking the ground underfoot.

"_They have taken you from the Imperial city's prison, first by carriage and now by boat;_ _to the east, to Morrowind."_

Startled the figure sprang to its feet, searching the darkness for the source of this strange voice but finding nothing. Suddenly the landscape changed again and the figure found itself on a bare rocky slope flanked on either side by steep mountainous terrain. From up ahead there was a deep rumble that made the earth shake beneath its feet. A shrill cry caused the figure to glance upwards, just in time to see a large winged creature swoop down upon it from above. Raising its arms to ward off this threat the figure stumbled backwards and missed its footing. Its body struck the rocks hard and it began to roll down the slope, only for the landscape to change once again. Now it was gazing down upon a pale moonlit lake whose surface rippled under the impact of the softly falling rain.

The voice came again, seemingly from all directions at once.

"_Fear not, for I am watchful, you have been chosen."_

"Wake up"

A new voice now, rougher and more urgent, "can you hear me…"

The world faded to darkness.

**A-A-A**

With a cry the man jerked awake, his breathing short and rapid. After a few seconds his attention focussed on the hand upon his shoulder, presumably the one that had just shaken him awake. His gaze swept up over the outstretched arm to meet a dull red eye.

"Are you alright there Athlar, you must have been dreaming, why are you shaking?" the other man's face was etched with concern, an effect somewhat spoiled by the savage scar trailing down the right-hand side of his face, highlighting are marred eye that glared sightlessly from its socket.

The man named Athlar took a deep breath to steady his nerves and forced a strained smile, "nothing Jiub, just a bad dream is all." And a very strange one at that, it had all seemed so…real. Disturbing dreams were nothing new, Divines knew he'd had more than his fair share, but this one had been very different-this time he had been able to feel every sensation, able to feel every cool drop of rain and every sharp stab of pain as his body had rolled down that slope. Were dreams supposed to feel that real? He chanced a look at his arms and was relieved to find them clear of blemishes.

Or at least any blemishes that hadn't been there before he had gone to asleep.

Still the experience had been quite unnerving, and that voice-whose voice had it been? It had sounded so soft and gentle, one that had made him feel strangely at ease in spite of the unpleasant surroundings. He was sure he had never heard it before and yet somehow it had seemed strangely familiar. And the words it had spoken, "you have been chosen". What was that supposed to mean? Chosen for what exactly?

_It was just a dream Athlar, nothing to worry about. You've had worse._

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Jiub's gruff voice. Shaking himself out of his reverie he forced his attention back to more immediate matters. "What was that?"

"I was just saying that you must be a heavy sleeper, not even last night's storm could wake you."

"Storm?" He had heard that outside events could have an effect on a person's dreams; that might explain the rain at least, perhaps the dust storm as well.

"Oh yes, not a particularly bad one but still violent enough to make the ship pitch about a fair bit. I was rather surprised you slept through it actually, I'm sure no one else did. Funny, I had the impression you were a light sleeper."

"I am-you don't spend nine years in the Emperor's dungeons without learning to sleep light. I guess I was tired." He rubbed his eyes wearily.

"Well then, be grateful you got some rest my friend, I think our ordeal will be over soon."

"Oh yes," Athlar glanced at him without enthusiasm, "and what makes you say that? We've been in here for more than a week, not to mention all that time we spent in the prison wagons. What makes you think it will end now?"

"Don't you feel it? The ship docked half an hour ago. We must have reached Morrowind, I'm sure they'll let us off now."

Now that he put his mind to on it, Athlar could indeed feel that the ship was quite steady beneath him, a sure sign that they had anchored. Still, that didn't really mean anything. "Don't hold your breath; it's as likely we'll be shipped off to Skyrim or Blackmarsh. I've heard the guards saying there is always demand for labour in those places."

"You're too pessimistic by half my friend."

"So you keep telling me!" with groan he stood up to stretch, wincing as the manacles chaffed against his wrists and ankle. One week of this hell, one week spent chained inside the dank hold of a ship, being damn near baked alive during the day and bloody near freezing at night. More than once he had been thankful for his racial abilities which had helped him to endure the stifling conditions. Some of the other prisoners had not been so fortunate.

In response Jiub gave a sharp nod towards the entrance of their compartment. "Be quiet, here comes the guard."

Hearing the approaching thud of armoured feet Athlar drew himself up, his face dropping into a practiced blank expression as the thick-set figure of an imperial man appeared in the doorway, blotting out most of the already feeble light. The guard treated them to a contemptuous stare before gesturing for Athlar to raise his hands. Producing a set of keys he unlocked the rusty manacles before kneeling to remove the one binding the prisoner's leg.

"Don't try anything prisoner, you'd never make it to the deck alive."

Athlar rolled his eyes irritably whilst rubbing his wrists. _Not likely, not in my current state_.

"Right," the guard straightened up, "get yourself up on deck and let's keep this as civil as possible."

"What about him?"

The guard merely gave an indifferent grunt, "just you."

Athlar met the other prisoner's gaze, half expecting to see anger or even desperation at the thought of being left behind. Instead he found only grim resignation in the dark elf's solitary red eye. Jiub forced a smile and nodded towards the doorway, "you had better do what they say."

Before he could reply the guard shoved him roughly though the doorway. "Move it prisoner!"

Stifling a retort he stumbled forward through the dark recesses of the hold, his feet moving over the scattered debris that littered the deck. He glanced at two other prisoners lying chained against the starboard side of the hold. They avoided his gaze, perhaps envious that he was leaving this hell-hole whilst they were still condemned to it. Walking on unsteady feet Athlar made his way through the final doorway and ascended a flight of steps, conscious of the heavy footfalls behind him. Through the trap-door and along the upper deck now, this one clear of obstructions and lined with folding tables attached to the port side of the ship. Breakfast must have been served recently as some tables still bore the remains of meals. His stomach growled loudly at the sight of bread crusts and dried stew-hardly a feast, but so much more appetising than the thin gruel the prisoners were made to subsist upon.

The guard gave Athlar another impatient shove that sent him staggering the last few feet. He missed his footing and sprawled hard at the foot of the steps that led to the deck above.

His tormentor strode past and stood at the foot of the ladder, "on deck now prisoner!"

Athlar shoved himself to his feet, cursing as his head struck a low hanging beam.

Another guard abruptly appeared from behind the stairway, this one a red headed imperial woman dressed in the same studded cuirass and chainmail as her male counterpart. "The sooner you leave the sooner we can move out."

That sounded fair, he certainly had no desire to remain in this ship any longer. Walking up the steps he pushed the trap door open, almost falling over again as the piercing sunlight suddenly assailed his eye. Shielding it from the glare he moved towards the solitary figure of a Redguard. The man wore a chainmail cuirass that marked him out as a member of the imperial legion. At his approach the guard gave a slight nod of greeting and motioned to the gangplank before him.

"This is where you get off, head down to the docks and they'll continue your release."

Athlar blinked again, this time in surprise, "my release?"

The guard shrugged, "that's what we're here for. If you'd kindly get a move on-we are running behind schedule as it is."

"So sorry," without a backward glance the prisoner walked down the gang plank, mentally willing himself to stay upright-after a week of being chained inside that ship his legs seemed unwilling to carry him. In truth the short walk from below deck had all but exhausted him but he would be damned if he'd give them the satisfaction of seeing him fall.

Another guard was already coming towards him down the jetty. This one was clad in the same mail cuirass as the Redguard, but also wore boots, pauldrons and an open-faced helmet of polished steel. _Probably a town guard_. Athlar stopped at the bottom on the gang-plank. _Let him come to me, I'm done playing nice with these fetchers!_

But if his little ploy annoyed the guard then the man didn't show it. "You've finally arrived. But our records don't show from where?"

"I've just come from the imperial prison."

"You mean you've come from Cyrodill?"

"The very same."

"Then follow me please."

_Please is it, well I suppose that makes a nice change from "move it scum!"_

Heaving a sigh he followed the man down the jetty to a large stone building with a heavy wooden door. Fixed to the building wall he spotted a carved wooden plaque which bore the message, in white letters that stood out sharply against the dark oak grains, **His Imperial Majesty's Census and Excise Office. **

The guard produced a set of keys, unfastened the lock and motioned for him to enter. "Head on in."

He stepped into the cool atmosphere of the office.

**A-A-A **

Socucius Ergalla, chief official for the Emperor's Census and Excise agency in the town of Seyda Neen, looked up from his desk as the prisoner stepped through the door, "ah good your here. We've been expecting you for a few days now. If you could step this way I just have to go through a few details before I can arrange for your release."

"What details?"

The customs official ran an appraising eye over the prisoner, a little surprised at what he saw. At fifty three the Imperial official prided himself on being a man of the world. He had been in the Emperor's service since he was fourteen when his father had sent him to study as a bank clerk. In that time he had seen service across the continent of Tamriel and had witnessed many strange and downright unpleasant things. It was rare for anything to surprise him, but the man standing before him now was certainly somewhat unusual.

He was a Dumner, of that there could be no question, for he sported the ashen grey skin, pointed ears and slanting bright red eyes so characteristic of that brooding race. Yet he was also notably taller, about six foot three inches in height, and somewhat broader in build than any Dumner Socucius could recall having seen before. The man was lean-unhealthily so-doubtless the result of a poor diet and a long stay in prison. He was clad in a filthy short sleeved shirt, dark brown trousers and cloth foot-wraps, all of them little more than rags. His hair was jet black, heavily matted and fell in thick clumps down his back whilst the fringe hung down over a finely chiselled face with high cheek-bones, and thin lips framed by a thick black bushy beard that was as heavily matted as his hair.

But the dominant feature of the face was undoubtedly the eyes-the left one was bright red like the deepest flame of a burning torch and yet at the same time cold, unfeeling and with no trace of emotion. The right one must have looked equally foreboding once, but now it was dull and sightless, marred by a jagged scar that ran from the man's forehead to the bottom of his cheek, spoiling what must have once been a handsome face. How the eye had survived at all was anyone's guess.

The left eye was studying him now with a detached and indifferent air that sent a shiver down Socucius' spine, despite the presence of the armoured guard standing in the corner. He had seen this look before on the faces of hardened killers as they were led away to execution, those who killed for a living and thought nothing of inflicting pain and death should it serve their purpose. He watched as the man began to scan the room. That too was familiar-a habit of thieves and brigands who, upon entering a room, would assess it for all possible threats and avenues of escape.

_He's a shady one all right, and it probably isn't the first time he's been in this situation._

Socucius coughed to clear his throat, "just a few details as to your background, things that must be recorded before you can be officially released."

"What for," the prisoner's voice was as cold as his eyes, "just give me the papers and let's have done with it."

Socucius sighed-evidently this man was going to be difficult, "your details first please. We'll start with your name."

"Athlar Corraithe."

"Very good; and now your place of birth?"

"Cyrodill."

Please be more specific."

"The Imperial City, in the slums-that's all I know."

"I see. Now if you could state your date of birth."

"The fourth day of Sun's Dusk, in the Imperial Year 329 of the Fourth Century."

_Eighty six years ago then_. "So you were born under the sign of the Atronarch, interesting." The prisoner made no reply. "You're race?"

"Can't you tell, I'm a Khajiit. I just mislaid my tail."

The excise officer had had a long day and weariness was fast beginning to make him forget his earlier nervousness. In an effort to stay calm he rubbed the bridge of his nose several times. "I'm sure that this seems meaningless to you but the fact is that we have to follow procedure. The sooner this is done the sooner you can be on your way, so could you please spare me this useless sarcasm?"

Athlar rolled his eyes but gave a nod of acquiescence.

"Your race please?"

"Half-blood," he caught the man's questioning look, "my mother was a Dark Elf, and my father was a Nord."

"Really?" Socucius wrote down the details, _well that explains his size at any rate_.

"Yes really."

The customs officer ignored the comment, "father's occupation?"

"Unknown."

"What do you mean unknown?"

"I never knew him was, or anything about him come to that. Only that he came from Skyrim."

"Didn't your mother tell you anything about him?"

"She died giving birth to me; she had just arrived in the Imperial city and left no clue as to where she came from. Apparently the authorities made enquiries but no one ever found anything."

"I see, very well then. And now you're chosen profession please?"

"Which one, I've gone through several in my lifetime."

"The most recent will do."

"Assassin," they would find out the truth sooner or later, why try to hold it back now.

"And finally, the crime for which you were imprisoned?"

"Theft and murder."

"I see," Socucius scribbled the final details down and pushed the role of paper towards him, "please sign your name and check that all details are correct."

Athlar bent over the desk, glancing over the details etched on the paper in the man's neat handwriting. Satisfied that no error was present he signed his name and passed the parchment back. Socucius then signed his own name, dripped some hot wax onto the parchment and pressed the imperial stamp into it. This done he passed the parchment to the half-blood. Athlar took it with a grunt and moved towards the door in the far wall. At his approach the guard stepped out in front of him.

"You are to go straight down the corridor, turn right and go through the door into the yard. Continue through the next door and talk to Selus Gravius. Don't touch anything, understand!"

"Understood."

"Good," the man stepped aside to allow him past.

Obeying his orders Athlar walked down the hallway, hearing the guard close the door behind him. A quick glance over his shoulder assured him that no one was following. He turned right and his attention was immediately drawn to the table before him.

It was laid out for dinner for one, with silver cutlery set up around a silver plate laid out with fine white meat-probably crab-together with a silver goblet and a flask full of some kind of beverage. For a moment the elf's stomach took command and, keeping an ear out for anyone approaching, he sank gratefully into the chair and fell upon the meat like a man possessed, stuffing it into his mouth and hardly bothering to chew before swallowing. It tasted so sweet after the same bland diet he had endured in the dungeons, almost like a gift from the gods. In what seemed like seconds he had cleaned the plate of its contents, licking it thoroughly to remove all remaining scraps.

It wasn't enough. His eyes desperately scanned the room for more nourishment and settled upon a basket full of bread on a bench behind the table. He reached for one of the loaves, finding it still warm to the touch. The long forgotten smell of fresh bread that assailed his nostrils was overpowering and he tore off large chunks, not pausing until the thick dough began to catch in his throat and caused a dull pain in his chest. Quickly Athlar reached for the flask and tipped its contents down his throat, wincing at the alcohol's burning taste. He swallowed several mouthfuls of the stuff until the pain had finally dissipated.

The experience brought him back to his senses. _Mustn't linger, have to move quickly before I'm caught._ At any moment someone might enter and it would do him no good to get caught with his hand in the barrel. If he was going to be released here then he might as well try to prepare himself for the outside world.

He eyed his surroundings. The room was small, with the table to his right taking up much of the space and the only other furniture of note being a large bookcase leaning against the left hand wall, with two large wicker baskets alongside it. The bookcase housed a number of plates and other utensil, including some silver, but they were too large and noticeable to try smuggling out. Some items of food lined the lower shelves, including a couple of large eggs but these he rejected as being equally too cumbersome to manage. His eyes fell upon an iron dagger that had been stuck into the woodwork of the table, securing a note scrawled onto a torn piece of paper. He peered at the writing.

_Hrisskar_

_Don't think I've forgotten our wager. I want this dagger as sharp as a scamp's claw by the morning._

_Ganciele._

Athlar discarded the note, no chance of smuggling a dagger that size out in his current attire-the rags were barely enough to cover him, let alone conceal a weapon. Of more interest was a thin metallic object that lay upon the second shelf alongside a pitcher. He picked it up, smiling at the familiar feel of a lock-pick in his hand.

A second later he spotted the iron strongbox on the third shelf. _Quick!_ Taking a deep breathe he began to probe the lock. His skills had deteriorated greatly during his long stay in prison but fortunately it was not a complex lock and after a few tries he heard the satisfying click of the latch springing back. Easing the lid back rewarded him with the gleam of gold.

A quick count revealed thirty seven gold septims, not a fortune but a lot to a man without a penny to his name. It was tempting to swipe the lot but he knew there was no chance of getting that much gold clear without it being noticed. Even if he found a place to hide it he would be given away by the clinking of the coins. Swallowing his disappointment Athlar picked out twelve gold coins and stuffed them into his foot-wraps. With any luck no one would think to check there and binding them tightly should prevent the coins from jingling together or falling out.

The sound of a handle being turned round the corner alerted him to potential danger. Slipping the delicate lock pick into the folds of his shirt Athlar quickly opened the door in the far wall as quietly as he could and hastened through it.

He stepped out into bright sunlight and for the second time that day found himself shading his eye against its baleful glare. He was in a small yard, enclosed entirely by a stone wall about eight feet in height. On his left the wall was connected directly to that of the Census and Excise office and turned to the right in a ninety degree quarter-circle, going on for several meters until it once again joined up with a building to his right. The courtyard itself was bare save for a doorway and a small barrel next to it.

On impulse Athlar walked over and lifted the barrel lid. It was empty save for a few gold coins, a flask of liquid and a small ring. There was no time to conceal more gold about his person but the ring might have some value. He pocketed the metal band and went through the door.

**A-A-A**

This room, like the one he had just left, was dominated by a large table and a bookcase. But it had a more business-like feel to it, with the shelves being mostly stacked with books, scrolls and the occasional utensil. The room's sole occupant was a well-built red-haired man who wore the gold uniform of an Imperial Templar Knight. Athlar knew something about the imperial legion's command structure and it occurred to him that he was likely addressing the town garrison's commanding officer.

The man regarded him with polite interest, "can I help you?"

"Are you Selus Gravius?"

"I am, and who might you be?"

"'Apparently I'm supposed to give you these." Athlar dropped his release papers onto the table.

"Ah yes I was told to expect you, let me just have a look here."

Athlar waited impatiently whilst the man read through the documents and, after what seemed like several minutes, gave a satisfied nod.

"Everything looks in order. All that remains now is to remove that bracer. Hold out your arm."

Athlar extended his right arm as bid, pleased to hear that he would finally be rid of the damned item. Known as slave bracers due to their popularity among slavers, the items were standard issue to all prisoners. Once locked onto the offender's forearm their enchantment would drain that person of their magicka and render them completely unable to cast spells. In order to prevent unauthorised removal all braces were carefully forged to make them near impossible to pick open without the correct key.

It also served as a physical symbol, if one were needed, of his captivity.

"Now," Gravius removed the bracer and placed it to one side, "I am sure that you are eager to leave, but before I let you go there are two matters which we must discuss."

"What now?"

"Well first of all I must give you this," the Templar produced a leather purse and handed it to him.

"What is this?" Athlar untied the string and emptied several gold coins into the palm of his hand.

"Eighty seven septims, just to get you started."

Now Athlar was confused, "but why are you giving me this?"

"The Empire believes in second chances Mr Corraithe. All prisoners receive a small dispersal upon their release, not much but it should be enough to help you get started once you leave here."

"I see, well…thank you." A small gesture, though truth be told not an unwelcome one.

Gravius merely shrugged in response, "you're welcome. And now onto our other business, I must instruct you in your duties to the Emperor."

Athlar raised his eyebrows, "my _duties_ to the Emperor-what is that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know why you were released from prison or brought here, but your release was authorised by Uriel Septim VII himself and that's all I need to know. Once you leave this office you will be a free man, but first I must instruct you on your duties," he opened a draw in the desk and removed a small package bound in white parchment, "this package arrived a few days ago along with a letter that I am instructed to give to you. Your instructions are to take this to the town of Balmora and deliver it to a man named Caius Cosades."

"Caius Cosades, is he another one of your officials?" Athlar made no effort to hide his sudden irritation; it would not surprise him if this turned out to be another part of his release. _Honestly, these Imperials wouldn't scratch their arses without going through a ceremony!_

Gravius shrugged, "not one that I know of, this whole matter is very mysterious but then that's the way the Empire works-let not the left hand know what the right one is doing. All I am able to tell you is that you're orders are to take that package to him immediately. That means that you are not to dally here in Seyda Neen, but to go straight to Balmora and head for a tavern named the South Wall Corner Club. Ask around for this man and someone there will be able to direct you to him. Once you find him give him the package-do not show it or this letter to anyone! You are then to follow his orders and serve him as you would serve the Emperor himself."

"Serve him!" now Athlar felt a stab of anger, "now just a moment I was given to understand I was to be released, not play courier to the local outposts. I certainly don't intend to play servant to the Emperor or any of his lackeys!"

Now Gravius's face took on a stern expression but his voice remained calm and level-clearly he was used to dealing with difficult people, "Then it seems you have not been fully informed as to your situation, or perhaps you have simply misunderstood it. Allow me to clarify some points," he waved aside any further protests, "no-now you will listen! Firstly your release is conditional-you will be free but only as long as you carry out your instructions. You do not have a choice in this matter-or rather you do but it will simply be to co-operate with us or…" he gestured to the door through which Athlar had just entered and left the threat hanging in the air.

With an effort Athlar bit down his anger and frustration, his single eye staring balefully at the Templar. "How do I get to Balmora?"

"I suppose the cheapest way is to walk. You can go by the main road which will take you past Fort Pelegiad, go through a deep ravine, then go past Fort Moonmouth and then across the Odai river. Balmora will be visible to you from there. Alternatively you take the more 'back-water track' route-go left once you cross the bridge on the outskirts of this town, follow it through the swamps and marshes and then through a deep ravine. Cross the Odai River when you come to a bridge, turn right to head for Balmora. For more detailed directions I suggest you speak to Elone the scout. She's a Redguard who usually hangs out at Arille's trade house when in town. I do not know if she is here right now, but if she is then I am sure she would be happy to help. However I would strongly suggest that you take the silt strider straight to Balmora."

"Silt strider?"

"You haven't heard of them?"

The Dark Elf shook his head.

"A Silt Strider is a huge insect that the locals use to transport passengers and goods between the main cities-fast, not too expensive and very safe. We have one here-just leave the town via the bridge and turn right, you can't miss it."

"Sounds like a safe bet," _and doubtless a good way for you to keep track of my movements once I leave here. _"Well as you say, it would appear that I have no choice. If there is nothing else then I would just as soon get this over with."

His hand was on the doorknob when Gravius spoke again, "Mr Corraithe," Athlar looked back at him, "let me be clear about this-you are not to discuss your situation with anyone, you are not to show that package or the letter to anyone and as I said you are not to dally here. If you fail to show up at your destination within the next three days we will be informed and a warrant will be issued for your arrest. Once apprehended you will be returned to the imperial prison and I doubt that the Emperor will feel inclined to intervene after such an abuse of his trust. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal clear."

"One last point-Vvardenfell may be a large island with many hidden caves and ravines, but do not imagine it to be so large as to render us unable to find you if you disappear. The local authorities are at our disposal in such matters and our knowledge of the island is certainly better than yours. You may be able to hide from us for a while but we will find you in the end. Do NOT try anything underhanded!"

With a stiff nod Athlar exited the room.

**A-A-A**

He was fuming-the bastards! For over nine years he had rotted inside that hell-hole and now they expected him to become a servant to some bloody imperial officer! He slammed the door hard-was it not enough that they had taken away nine years of his life, put him through that hell!

_Do you really have to ask that question Athlar? Your life should have been forfeit long ago and you know it! Consider yourself lucky-you deserve far worse._

The words hit him like a dash of cold water, instantly cooling his anger. Shaking away the images that always accompanied that voice he decided to take stock of his immediate surroundings.

Seyda Neen could hardly be classed as a town-a village was more appropriate. Half-a-dozen small dwellings lay to his left and immediately in front of him, presumably houses. They were fairly neat, built from stone with sloping slate roofs fashioned in the modern style currently favoured in Cyrodill. To his right stood a large stone building that was joined to the Census and Excise office by a second floor extension. Through the resulting archway he was able to make out the pale blue glimmer of the sea beyond. The wooden jetty down which he had recently walked was just visible, but of the ship that had brought him here there was no sign.

The only other place of note was a building on his far left, larger than the others and accessed by steps leading up to a wooden walkway-probably the trade house Gravius had virtually told him to avoid. Athlar paused, debating on whether he should go in anyway. Of course it was probably not wise to risk getting into trouble after only just being released but still…

A loud growl from his stomach decided the matter. Bugger that Templar and his bloody Emperor, if he was going to play courier for them he sure as hell was not going to do it on an empty stomach.

At the foot of the walkway he came upon the despondent figure of a Wood Elf slouched against the wall. Instinctively his hand went to his purse-when it came to the Wood Elves or Bosmer as they preferred to be known, you could never be too careful with your belongings. The Bosmer looked up at his approach.

"Hello stranger, are you new in town?"

"I just arrived."

"Ah, then you must have come on that prison ship."

"Yes."

"Well then, on behalf of the townsfolk let me welcome you to Seyda Neen, the swamp fever capitol of the world."

"Sounds charming," Athlar began to edge away. Whilst it was nice to receive a friendly welcome he really did not feel like talking, if nothing else his legs were beginning to ache again and he wanted badly to sit down.

Unfortunately the smaller man seemed unwilling to let the conversation go-his despondent demeanour had completely disappeared and now he seemed positively cheerful, "oh it isn't so bad really. I mean it's no patch on a city like Balmora but once you spend a bit of time in some squalid little village like Gnaar Mok I think you'll see the attraction."

Athlar's brain kicked into gear-now what was it his old teacher had taught him?

_Information is the most valuable resource you can have Athlar, never turn your nose up if it's offered, even the most trivial piece of information may prove invaluable._

"Well, you certainly seem to be knowledgeable about this place Mr..?"

"Names Fargoth," he offered his hand and Athlar accepted, wincing a little at the enthusiasm with which it was promptly shaken, "I hear it all from my friend Arrille who runs the trade house here. He's pretty well informed about the local goings on. If you want information then just tell him I sent you."

"Thank you Fargoth," by now Athlar was feeling that he really needed to get something to eat. Trying not to appear rude he attempted to extricate himself from the conversation again. "Well I wouldn't want to keep you; you looked fairly lost in thought before I disturbed you…"

"Oh yes," Fargoth's demeanour changed again and he became quite downcast, "I suppose the troubles of a lowly commoner like me aren't your concern but it's just…oh I've just been having a bad run of luck lately-I mean first I have trouble at the tables and then there's these bloody guards," he was pacing about now, kicking up dirt as he went, "they're always fleecing me for their protection money and when they didn't get it yesterday they took my ring, my ring!"

"Attached to it were you?"

"Family heirloom belonged to my grandmother. I mean it's not worth much but my mother gave it to me and I promised to look after it…" he looked at Athlar with interest, "…you've just come through that office of theirs right stranger. I don't suppose you saw it-simple iron band with a jade stone in the centre? It'd mean so much to me to have it back."

Athlar hesitated, his right hand closing around the ring in his pocket. Should he? He could hardly afford to be generous, having precious few belongings as it was. Not to mention the fact that he had detected a faint enchanted aura bound within the ring. It might come in useful once he was finished with this wretched little errand.

He withdrew his hand.

**A-A-A**

An hour later Athlar stepped out of the trade house. Following a simple meal of grilled rat meat, a flagon of sujamma and some good rest he now felt fitter than he had felt since his incarceration had begun and his mind had switched to planning his next move. His orders had been quite specific but he had no intention of going out into this unknown island unprepared. Taking advice from a dark elf or Dumner as she had insisted on being called, he had consulted the tavern's patron Arille. Arille was a tall Altmer who dressed in smart clothes and possessed a cheerful face and attitude to match, quite at odds with the haughtiness that characterised most of his race.

His advice had been simple-get a weapon, some armour and a few potions. Apparently Vvardenfell, as the island was called, was a hostile environment with many dangers and it would be best if he could defend himself. After a bit of bartering Athlar had walked away with some new gear. He now wore a cuirass of studded leather; a hooded cloak made of dark grey wool draped over his shoulders and had exchanged his worn foot wraps for a pair of leather boots.

A steel short sword hung from his right hip and the hilt of an iron dagger protruded from his left boot. Completing the new outfit was a leather sling-bag containing a tinder box, a small cooking pot, a set of wooden cutlery, a cheap potion of Restore Health and small book with a red leather cover-a journal which Arrille had thrown in as a gesture of goodwill.

Unfortunately this spending spree had set him back a substantial amount-he now had only thirty two gold pieces left. He just hoped it would be enough for the silt strider. A man who had decided to share his table, an Imperial by the name of Vodunius Nuccius, had strongly advised him to make use of the beast. "The driver is a friend of mine. Her name's Dorvame Heran. Just mention my name and she'll give you a discount. I guarantee you it'll be a safer and faster way than going on foot."

Athlar had to concede these points-if nothing else he wanted to get this damned courier business over with as soon as possible. Besides catching a ride seemed much more appealing than blundering about on foot in this unknown landscape and at present his legs simply were not up to a long hike.

He crossed the bridge and turned right. A short walk brought him to the foot of a wooden stairway, at the top of which sat a Dumner woman. At his approach she rose to her feet.

"Greetings stranger, are you looking to travel?"

"I am. Vodunius Nuccius said I should see you for the silt strider."

The woman gave a small smile, "ah Vodunius Nuccius the dear fellow. Yes he was right I can take you to any of the nearby cities if you wish. Where do you need to go?"

"Balmora."

"No problem-I can get you there in a few hours. The price is twelve septims."

"Twelve septims-that seems a bit much to me!"

The woman merely shrugged in response, "silt striders are not cheap to maintain stranger, and I would normally charge you more. Seeing as Vodunius sent you here I can afford to give you a little discount but that's all you'll get."

Darkness was closing in and Athlar really didn't feel like haggling over the price. He handed over the gold and climbed into the passenger compartment.

**A-A-A**

The silt strider turned out to be a gigantic insect that looked much like a gigantic flea. It stood tall on six massive legs, but unlike a flea it's two rear legs were quite straight, in no way designed for leaping. Instead it had two front legs, shorter than the other six and held up against its body, presumably used for feeding.

"So you have an arrangement with Nuccius?" Athlar glanced down over the side of the beast, still unnerved at the distance; it must have been at least twenty feet above the ground. The pace was slow and steady (and surprisingly comfortable), but he really wished it wasn't so high.

Dorvame kept her eyes fixed ahead, her hands skilfully manipulating the controls set into the silt strider's back as she dictated its direction. "That's right, he steers business my way and I do him a little favour now and again. It's worked out well so far, but between you and me I don't think the poor fellow is very happy here in Morrowind."

"What makes you say that?"

"Oh just observations, he came here to seek his fortune when the island was opened up to colonisation but it hasn't worked out for him. Now I think he just doesn't know what to do."

Athlar wasn't really interested in hearing about other people's problems; he had enough of his own to deal with. Settling back into his seat he rummaged through his sack, dug out the letter he had been given and began to read.

Dorvame seemed to sense his mood and made no attempt to continue their conversation.

The letter was short and written in a neat, flowing hand.

_Athlar Corraithe_

_You have been given these directions and a package of documents. Do not show them to anyone. Do not attempt to read the documents in the package. The package has been sealed and your tampering will be discovered and punished._

_Follow these directions._

_Proceed to the town of Balmora in Vvardenfell District. Report to a man named Caius Cosades. He will be your superior and patron, you will follow his orders. His residence is not known, but ask at the corner club called "South Wall". People there will know where to find Caius Cosades. When you report to Caius Cosades, deliver the package of documents to him and wait for further orders._

_Remember. You owe your life and freedom to the Emperor. Serve him well and you will be rewarded. Betray him and you will suffer the fate of all traitors._

_I have the Honour to prepare this at the direction of His Most Sovereign Majesty the Emperor Uriel Septim._

_Glabrio Bellienus_

_Personal secretary to the Emperor._

Athlar angrily crushed to paper in his fist. He'd be damned before he allowed himself to become an imperial slave.

But then, did he really have a choice?

**A-A-A**

**TBC.**

OOC: All reviews appreciated, including criticisms so long as it is constructive criticism.


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